


Handkerchiefs

by immistermercury



Series: Jim and Fred in NYC [2]
Category: Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018), Queen (Band)
Genre: Falling In Love, Fluff, Handkerchiefs, Love, M/M, New York City, Strangers to Lovers, Subways, They're so gentle, as in the gay code in the 80s, but so gentle?, caring for one another, freddie is so forward, meeting on the subway, no idea what that obsession is at the moment but we move, we love respecting boundaries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-04
Updated: 2021-01-04
Packaged: 2021-03-15 05:15:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,803
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28558212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/immistermercury/pseuds/immistermercury
Summary: Honey-brown eyes followed his footsteps, the book suddenly shoved under an arm; Jim started to smile when he looked down at his feet and saw the man balanced on his toes, trying to see over the commuters between them, searching for a glimpse of the handkerchief. Jim shuffled back and forth on his feet, as though restless, and then began to walk again.This time, he stopped next to the man.Jim swore that his heart stopped when the man looked up at him, eyes curious and inquisitive as though a piece of art had just stopped its walk beside him. He kept his eyes forward for a moment, as though nonchalant, and then he let their eyes meet.It was then that the beautiful man began to smile as though he’d won the lottery. The man let his fingers touch Jim’s arm, the most gentle, graceful touch, as though he would crumble if he pressed too hard-And then he interlaced their fingers.“Freddie.” He whispered, his eyes bright as he looked up at him.“Jim.”
Relationships: Jim Hutton/Freddie Mercury
Series: Jim and Fred in NYC [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2168016
Comments: 7
Kudos: 25





	Handkerchiefs

**Author's Note:**

> Small fluff for you! Things are major hectic again and my head is all over the place so I wrote this lil oneshot just to get back into the flow of some words!

It had always been forbidden to stare at people, ever since he’d been a little boy, his hand clasped in his mother’s and tugged angrily when his eyes lingered too long on the girl with blue hair or the man with tattoos of rainbows and fairies and monsters wrapped around his forearms. Many times his eyes had been covered, his mother offering hasty apologies when her little boy pointed and asked about women with long acrylic nails or purple lipstick, men with red wine stains on their shirts or casts on their arms; his own body, unblemished aside from the bruise on his knee from football practice, seemed so dull in comparison.

It had taken years to train his gaze to slide down to shoes and trousers instead. He had inspected every Louboutin heel, every tawny espadrille, Chelsea boots in black and brown, in green and orange and patterned with flowers; he’d noticed every pair of jeans hastily rolled up, suit trousers with creases carefully ironed into them, every skirt that hugged the hips of beautiful women and every so often, a boy who wore cut off shorts. As he’d grown older, his gaze had become more confident once again, once his mother had stopped tugging on his hand and instead allowed him to traipse back and forth to his university on his own, with only a homemade muffin and a flask of English tea in his hand; he noticed waists, hips, bold designer belts and handbags made from eccentric leather.

His new obsession, however, was people’s hands.

It had started with a sudden fascination with counting just how many people in the carriage around him were married; as his own time ticked on, as Dr. Marten’s boots and tight jeans became his own pair of starched work slacks, his shoes shined before they were put by the door each night, just about everyone seemed to be married. Women in skirt suits wore diamonds on their fingers, men in hoodies and jeans, men in dresses, men in suits, wore bands of gold dedicated to their betrothed. 

Sometimes, he was the only person in the carriage unmarried. He found himself taking later trains, trains filled with students coming home from jobs that finished hours later than his own; he found himself staring at their hands, quietly comforted that he wasn’t the only man in the world with a quiet one-bed apartment in Hudson Street. He liked the sound of their chatter, feeling so alien from the silence that seemed to wrap around his life; he liked listening to their music, their arguments, revelling in their excitement as they etched their names into the windows of the train with their house keys.

It was seven minutes past ten, his watch reminded him, far too late to expect a train within the next few minutes though he did anyway; he still hadn’t adjusted from the trains that came every four minutes in central London, to now waiting twelve for a train in Manhattan. He had changed, as he often did, before he left the office; the trains were painfully hot for a starched shirt. 

His eyes scanned the hands of the strangers on the train platform instinctively, silently judging volumes of Henry James, the New York Times, Vogue. He scanned over handbags, belts by Dolce and Gabbana, nothing much to cast a thought to his mind-

Until he spotted a copy of a Holleran he’d covertly read - having swapped the dust jacket for a Virginia Woolf - in a pair of hands tanned by the heat of the sun. His eyes jumped up to the face of the reader before he could stop himself, his heart beating harder-

And he swore he lost his breath.

He couldn’t find a single word in his mind to even begin to describe the man that leant against the wall. He wore black boots, one pressed flat to the tiled wall, bending his leg and throwing the muscles into sharp relief; his jeans left nothing to the imagination, hugging tight to every curve that made him shiver. His tank top showed off the light muscles in his arms, well-kept, well-groomed-

He wore a dark blue handkerchief pinned to his back pocket- the left. 

Jim hadn’t worn his handkerchief for long. After months - when he considered it, years - of fighting to keep himself quiet, it had caused him too much anxiety at first; he had stuffed it into his pocket after only ten minutes of wearing it in public, too afraid that people would recognise what it meant. Instead, he had taken to only wearing it in clubs, in places where he could be open, though at first the attention he had received had only made him blush. 

For weeks, he’d been everyone’s new favourite toy, a new face in a town where everyone knew everyone, everyone had slept with everyone, and everyone knew the length of everyone else’s cock. He’d had new men every night, spinning in ecstasy as he finally found hands that could satisfy him, hands that had broken him from an existence that had begun to feel so mundane. 

For every man he’d had- no man had ever taken his breath away before. 

He swallowed hard when the man looked up, casting a glance at the tracks at the sound of a train approaching, though it stopped at another platform; Jim caught only a glimpse of his honey-brown gaze before the eyes focused back on the words. He surreptitiously felt in his right pocket, carefully unfurling the handkerchief that he’d shoved in there, and tucked it in so that it was visible-

And then he started to walk down the platform, trying to appear mindless, his hands shoved in his pockets, though his heart hammered in his chest. He walked past the beautiful man, squeaking his shoe against the floor just to disrupt the flow of his reading, and then he ducked back into the crowd, leaning back against the wall.

Honey-brown eyes followed his footsteps, the book suddenly shoved under an arm; Jim started to smile when he looked down at his feet and saw the man balanced on his toes, trying to see over the commuters between them, searching for a glimpse of the handkerchief. Jim shuffled back and forth on his feet, as though restless, and then began to walk again. 

This time, he stopped next to the man.

Jim swore that his heart stopped when the man looked up at him, eyes curious and inquisitive as though a piece of art had just stopped its walk beside him. He kept his eyes forward for a moment, as though nonchalant, and then he let their eyes meet.

It was then that the beautiful man began to smile as though he’d won the lottery. The man let his fingers touch Jim’s arm, the most gentle, graceful touch, as though he would crumble if he pressed too hard-

And then he interlaced their fingers. 

“Freddie.” He whispered, his eyes bright as he looked up at him. 

“Jim.” He introduced himself, his cheeks turning a little pink under the intensity of his gaze. 

“Where are you heading to?” Freddie asked quietly, his thumb tracing back and forth over Jim’s skin. 

“Houston Street.” He replied. “You?”

“Houston Street sounds good.” He grinned back at him earnestly. “Any good restaurants?”

“You’re one of those.” Jim laughed, though he winked at Freddie. “One or two.”

“I don’t have to be one of those!” He sang playfully, winding both arms around Jim’s neck; he was a little taken aback with just how comfortable he was, as though they’d been lovers for years, though he found himself instinctively winding his arms around Freddie’s waist. “But I’ve only just finished work, darling, and I’m fucking starving.”

“What do you do?” He asked curiously, glancing up when their train arrived and tugging him on along with him. Freddie stumbled, laughing as he jumped up onto the train, and gasped when Jim crowded him against the other set of closed doors. 

“Oh, just some music stuff.” He shrugged, winding his arms around Jim’s neck and grinning when their lips touched. He seemed to soften under Jim’s touch, allowing his body to be played like an antique cello or an expensive harp; he was so receptive to every touch, so willing, so open, so loving.

He was nothing like any experience Jim had ever had in a club, in a bar, in twelfth floors of warehouses that had been done up with liquor and lights. His hands didn’t grab, his lips didn’t bite, his nails didn’t dig hard into his shoulders; his fingertips touched Jim’s jawline, the muscles in his neck, his shoulders, and his back so tenderly, and he kissed so softly, so sweetly. It was more chaste than Jim swore he’d ever experienced, lulled into a quiet calm as the train rocked slowly beneath them, the warmth of his body calming a nervous energy that had beat through his veins from that first day he had worn his handkerchief. It felt almost sleepy, languid and tired between them, as though they were lovers that had been wound up in blankets for hours already on that cold Thursday evening. 

Freddie’s eyes were bright and curious when Jim eventually pulled back, his cheeks flushed with warmth and happiness, and he laughed a little, the pads of his fingers flying to his lips and gently touching them. “Was that real?” He laughed, suddenly hugging the man opposite him as hard as the train lurched beneath them. Jim’s arms were so safe as they caught him, their bodies pressed close to one another as they shared another kiss.

“I think it was.” Jim grinned back at him, in disbelief that the man in his arms truly seemed as besotted with him as he felt in his heart. “Are you a fucking story-book character?”

“Something like that.” He said playfully. “I believe in shooting my shot, darling.”

* * *

As soon as Freddie’s back hit the bed, he felt purged of the energy of the day; he closed his eyes for a moment and found himself halfway through a yawn before he clasped his hand over his mouth. He stretched his arms overhead, the mattress hugging every sore muscle in his back, every overexerted joint, sleepiness washing over him without the need for tablets or powders or drinks-

“Tired, Sleeping Beauty?” Jim teased, crawling over him and pressing a gentle kiss to his lips. 

“No, no, it’s fine.” He smiled back at him, cupping Jim’s cheek and kissing him once again. “Handkerchief on the right, right?”

“We don’t have to do anything if you’re tired.” He said gently.

“It’s fine, darling, it’s what I’m here for.” He chuckled. “Have you got-”

“It’s absolutely not what you’re here for. You’re here because I want to hang out with you.” Jim chastised him playfully, kissing the end of his nose, and then stood up. “Whereabouts do you live?”

“Chelsea, close by, it won’t be much of a walk.” He promised, reaching out for Jim. “Come back, baby.”

“It’s not that close by!” Jim laughed. “Do you want some pajamas?” He asked, rifling in one of his drawers.

“Are you serious?” Freddie asked, propping himself up on his elbows. “What for?”

“What do you think? A lapdance.” He said sarcastically. “So you can get comfy.”

“I could do a lapdance.” He wiggled his eyebrows playfully. 

“I’ll hold you to that one day.” He winked. “Do you want them?”

“Just a shirt.” He requested, though his cheeks had pinkened. “I mean, as long as that’s okay.”

“I would never have thought you’d be such a worrier.” Jim grinned, digging through his drawer for a shirt that wouldn’t drown Freddie’s figure. He handed it over and retrieved a pair of pajama bottoms for himself, candyfloss pink and blue, and then turned back to him once he’d changed. “I’ll order dinner.”

“Are you serious?” Freddie asked again, cheeks reddening further. “You really- you don’t have to do this for me, I mean, you only just met me-”

Jim turned around and arched a playful eyebrow, crossing his arms. “Will burgers do?”

“I-” He started to smile. “God, I think I’m going to fall in love with you.”

* * *

The sunshine was weak as it dripped through the curtains, the first cold rays of that morning, falling on the faces of the bodies that felt like ice melting between the bedsheets. Fingers clutched shoulders, arms intertwined, legs wrapped in one another to steal the few inches of heat that sat between the sheets. The sunlight shattered with the sound of the alarm, echoing loudly from every surface in the bedroom, every counter, every wardrobe, every shelf and the carpet and the walls- Freddie groaned, his head pounding as he stretched out, his back cracking loudly-

He gasped when his fist hit skin, suddenly realising that the bed he was in wasn’t his own, nor was it his bedroom around him, the window he would sit in and sketch, the tree outside with the bluebird that sung him awake every morning. 

“Good morning, darling.” Jim smiled, watching as his smile started to creep onto his face.

“It wasn’t a dream.” Freddie murmured, cheeks pink as Jim sat up and wound both arms around his waist.

“I had the same thought.” He chuckled and gently pecked his lips. “You know, I never asked you- what’s your job?”

“My job?” Freddie asked, rubbing his eyes blearily and then settling back in Jim’s arms. “You did ask me. I told you, music stuff.”

“That’s not very specific, is it?” He teased. 

Freddie yawned and buried his nose against Jim’s shoulder, closing his eyes again. “You get the idea.”

“Freddie!” He laughed. “Just tell me what you do for a living!”

“I’m a singer!” He whined back. “For a band called Queen.”

Jim paused for a long moment, the shock evident on his face. “You- you?”

Freddie groaned and covered his face with his sleeve. “Yes, me.”

“I didn’t think you’d look like you do.” He laughed and lay back, suddenly admiring the body in the bed beside him tenfold. “You’re far more gentle than people make you out to be.”

He started to smile reluctantly. “Thanks.” He chuckled. “What do you do?”

“Finance. Wall Street.” He shrugged, interlacing their fingers again. “Thanks for coming home with me last night.”

He just rolled his eyes fondly. “You’re welcome, darling.”

* * *

_ When their hands unlaced at the last possible second, at the parting of the doors at Rector Street station, Jim swore he left a little piece of his soul in the palm of Freddie’s hand. _

* * *

New York City was an awfully big place, he’d come to discover within five minutes of pasting wallpaper up onto the wall in his lounge; as he’d looked out of the window, the world had seemed to stretch endlessly in front of him, concrete vines interspersed with buildings made of leaves. He had been overwhelmed, breathless, when he had been confronted with the expanse of the space around him; he had felt like the smallest fish in the biggest pond, swallowed, drowned.

It was also fucking difficult to find somebody again.

He’d yearned, hinted, almost begged for a phone number scrawled on the back of his hand in permanent marker. He’d wanted a sign, somewhere to meet him, somewhere more reliable than the platform for the subway up to Houston Street at ten o’clock on a Thursday evening-

He’d been met with a mocking eyebrow and a quirk of the lip, and a vague promise sealed like wax with a kiss on the lips.

The rain dripped relentlessly against the window, soaking the frame and the sill where it fit crookedly in its home; he lay back on his sofa, the sound of his house so quiet around him, swallowing him whole in that feeling, once again, of loneliness. He closed his eyes, sighed, just to hear the sound around him, just to shatter the hum of the boiler that seemed to be his only companion.

His eyes flew open when the doorbell rang.

He looked up quickly and rubbed his tired eyes, descending the stairs to the main door and unlatching it without a moment’s hesitation, suddenly made bright and curious by the interruption to his monotonous melancholy-

Freddie stood in his doorway, a bag full of food in one hand, and held it up as an offering. “I thought I should return the favour.”

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


_ “Please, darling, honey, I’m begging you- where did you get this?” _

_ “I told you, lovie, just a little place that I know down-” _

_ “But what’s its name, Freddie? I think I might die if I never eat this again-” _

_ “It’s nothing, honestly, it-” _

_ “Freddie!” _

_ “I cooked it.” _

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


_ God, you really are husband material, aren’t you? _

**Author's Note:**

> Let me know what you thought! You know I love your comments! (I might have gotten the handkerchief code wrong here - different websites said different things - sorry!)
> 
> Xx


End file.
